Chapter Eight
Joy Awen dashed from her cab into the entrance of the gallery. Holding a newspaper over her hair to keep the rain off, she pushed the key in the door and turned the lock. A warning beep started inside the gallery as she closed the door behind her, throwing across a small bolt, before hurrying to turn off the alarm.
It was six in the morning but Joy often came into work before her employees, who wouldn’t arrive before half past eight. She liked this time alone to work silently without distraction, but most of all it was a time when she could walk around and look at the paintings and sculptures which were on display. It was a time when she thought more about the future, particularly the ongoing success of the gallery. Sometimes she would have moments of complete clarity. Like the time when she moved a sculpture that hadn’t sold into a completely different place in the gallery. The piece had stood in the same place for months prior to that. The next day, after she moved it, she had three offers.
It was all merchandising of course. Some things needed to be given more light, turned in a different angle, or even placed in a remote, dimmed corner. Joy had an instinct for it, but it didn’t always work when too many people were around to distract her. That was why these moments alone were so important.
She walked to the back of the gallery and into her office. She removed her damp coat and hung it on an old wooden coat stand, then went into her private bathroom. She gazed in the mirror at her somewhat wild hair. It was loose; she had taken to wearing it that way since Juniper had complimented her on it the one night that they had indulged in sex. He said it made her look beautiful. Wanton. Of course it was probably just the vodka talking, but Joy had enjoyed his comments nonetheless. And she had realized that wearing her hair this way made her eyes, which always seemed too large for her small face, appear dramatic and charming instead of just big.
She ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it down a little, before returning to the office. Once there she put fresh coffee into her coffeemaker and walked back out to the gallery while the drink brewed.
She switched on the lights in the main viewing area. Juniper’s paintings were mostly in place but Joy still had to decide where the final pieces would go. She walked around the room studying the art, noting again how all of the paintings seemed to revolve around beautiful women. It irritated Joy somewhat how much Juniper loved the female form and she became agitated as she walked around. So perfect. Beautiful, curvy bodies. Some naked, some posed and dressed in classical styles. Goddesses all of them. Except they weren’t: these were all very ordinary girls, but something in the brush strokes made them special. A kind of loving admiration that portrayed them all at their best.
Joy stopped. They were so unlike the other abomination that she should really revel in them. Her eyes automatically went to the door of her office. And, as though drawn there, she found herself back in the room, gazing at the wall behind her desk.
It held a generic painting. Flowers in a field, not unlike the brush strokes of Van Gogh, but really nowhere near as good. The painting was there as a deliberate distraction. It drew the eye away from the wall where a less casual observer might notice that it jutted out three inches, as though a chimney breast had once been there. Joy walked around her desk then put her hand to her throat, pulling out a thin chain on which hung a key. She pushed the painting askew to reveal a keyhole behind it. She inserted the key in the lock, and a door, little more than a plywood oblong, clicked open to one side of the room.
This was a secret space, one that had been built by an ex-boyfriend as a simple storage cupboard for her office supplies. It was meant to be for fun. A hidden cupboard, and Joy had not thought of its use being applied in any other way. It wasn’t even particularly secure. Joy had a bigger vault that her staff knew about. This was where they kept expensive pieces until they were hung or displayed properly in the gallery, with the appropriate security around them. But the space behind her desk was known only to Joy, and she rarely opened it.
A painting hung there. A female form, but not depicted in the usual way.
Joy hated it, but couldn’t bring herself to part with it. This painting was an unknown Picasso and she had obtained it by less than legal means from a German immigrant who suddenly needed money.
Joy never asked how he had obtained the painting, but she had a suspicion that the man needed to flee the country. He had hard eyes. The stone, flinty expression of someone who had seen, and perhaps done, terrible things. At the time there was lots of bad press coverage, and an ex-Nazi was being tried for war crimes. A witch hunt ensued to out others. Joy could only imagine, but didn’t know for certain, which was why she was able to deal with him, that Mr. Shultz had a reason to be afraid.
He wanted ridiculous money, but fortunately didn’t comprehend the real value of the piece. But Joy had, the minute she saw it. And yes, abomination was the best way to describe this awful portrait. But even so it had an allure, a charm that pulled you into its grotesque, distorted world.
“One million in cash,” Schultz had said.
Joy laughed. “I couldn’t possibly pay that for this. Maybe fifty thousand?”
They had finally settled on seventy-five thousand. Joy gave him cash directly from her safe. As he left, she had wondered what to do with it. The picture wasn’t legitimate. Its source unreliable. There would be questions asked. She made all sorts of excuses to herself to hold onto the piece. Joy had stared at her prize and, although it was worth many millions, she knew she could never part with it. Yes, there were collectors that would buy and not ask questions. But she didn’t want to sell it. Not at any price.
She had pulled free the shallow shelves in the cupboard and stowed the picture there temporarily. But it had remained there. It was a perfectly innocent hide-away. Potential thieves would be looking for their sturdy metal vault and cash registers. Not a shallow storage cupboard behind an office desk. Plus, she really didn’t want her staff to know about it.
She pulled the cupboard door open wide and again the shock of the colors assaulted her. The figure was hideous. Deformed. Similar to, but not the same as, some of Picasso’s other works, this woman was made up of odd body parts. The face was different colors and tones, sharp shapes that looked like pieces of broken glass. Her hair was brown, not unlike Joy’s in color, but it held a lustrous shine that went around the distorted visage. Its limbs were no better; bent and cut in painful angles. It was as though she were a puzzle that had been wrongly put together. Or had become confused with other puzzle pieces.
The pose should have been nice. The woman lay on a chaise longue, draped in blue satin, one leg crossed over the other. Joy noticed again how peculiar the legs were, one was definitely longer than the other. She closed her eyes. It was horrible. Really horrible. But she couldn’t help visiting it, torturing herself with its vile sheen.
She wondered sometimes if this was just a first, and failed, experiment of what had gone on to be Picasso’s most successful works. But she thought it unlikely. The brush strokes were too good, too precise. The execution however … He hated the model! Why else would Picasso depict someone looking so vile? It wasn’t about art, it was about loathing. Pure and simple—the artist was as disgusted by this figure as Joy was by his painting.
Joy’s eyes fell on the shadowing. Strange how he had chosen to paint the woman’s shoulder dark, ghostlike—as though a piece of the puzzle was missing. Or perhaps … Joy dismissed the thought that came into her head as ridiculous and insane. Then she closed the cupboard again.
She wondered why she tortured herself so much. This despicable travesty was so far removed from Avgustin Juniper’s love of the female form, that it reminded her why she had chosen to exhibit his work in the first place.
She locked the cupboard, dropped the key back down under her top, then turned to the coffee machine. She poured her coffee black into a white ceramic mug.
She glanced at her watch. It was half past seven. Had an hour and a half passed already? It was so easy to lose time these days.
Taking the cup with her she returned to the gallery. Juniper’s women were now like a breath of fresh air. She no longer felt irritated or jealous of their curves. These paintings were the antidote to the Picasso.
What a strange thought!
She put sticky notes on the frames of the remaining pictures, each with a position number, and as she heard her assistant, Julian, tap lightly on the door, Joy knew she had achieved her goal in finding the ideal position for each painting. She placed the last note and returned to the front of the shop to open the door.